Hope is a 15-year old girl

Emily, my darling, you were very wrong.

Hope is not the thing with feathers.

And- no, righteous, arrogant men who "know better"

than me- hope is not a prayer

whispered to God.

No, wide-eyed, all knowing women with shrill voices-

hope is not a portrait that

sits still in a temple.

I'm 15: I think I know what hope is.

Hope is a 15-year-old girl who locks herself in

a cold, unforgiving cubicle as other girls

outside strut and apply lip gloss.

Hope is every time she shuffles her feet

against the dark, grainy floor;

every time she digs her chipped nails into a fist.

Hope is how she punches and drags her moist hands

along the stoic marble walls.

Hope is taste of her lip bleeding-

swollen, red from words

held back.

Hope is how the salt of her tears mixes with the scent of her

merciless sweat; soaking

the numb, polyester shirt her mother had

ironed for her.

Hope is warmth of her breath as she weeps softly

into her arms:

arms filled with dust,

ink, and unrequited love.

Hope is how she gasps and chokes

until- a sharp ring.

Her breath hitches as she gathers slowly,

the deafening sounds of shrieks and laughter

filling her ears. She smoothens

the creases of her shirt,

runs her hand through her hair once more

before sucking her breath in.

She glides her fingers to the lock and

steps out, wide-eyed;

and crosses over to the mirror for one final glance.

She meets her eyes, hesitantly, unsure

of the person she has become-

and finally steps out.

And hope is the uncertainty in her step,

in the light quiver of her lips, the way

she walks into the unwelcoming world.

Stumbling a little, maybe.

But always there. Reaching. And leaping.

And reaching.

Vidushi Raajput